


risk over reward

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, StartUp (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternative Universe - FBI, Forced Prostitution, Human Trafficking, John Watson is Phil Rask, John is an FBI agent, M/M, Not between Sherlock and John tho, Organized Crime, POV John Watson, Prostitution, Sexual Violence, Sherlock is a right arse, Sherlock is an NCA Agent, Sherlock x StartUp Crossover, Startup, and a bit of psychopath, crossover AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:10:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: StartUp x Sherlock crossoverFour months after the massive GenCoin and Guizer scandal, Agent Watson is still recovering from the nearly fatal gunshot wound he sustained in the Everglades, when he is called into the Bureau to run point on a new case. Intel says a financial and human trafficking crime syndicate based in London has begun moving into Miami, making it onto the FBI’s radar.Sherlock Holmes, a specialist agent with the UK National Crime Agency, is sent to Miami to assist with the investigation and pioneer coordination between the two agencies. When he and John Watson are paired up for the case, John is not pleased to be working with a younger know-it-all, posh rich boy type, and does little to hide his animosity.As time passes, the two realize they have more in common than their initial impressions of one another. When they become tangled up in the complex case, they will have to learn to trust one another to stay alive.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	risk over reward

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic is a WIP, and I currently have not written more than one chapter. I promise nothing in terms of updating it, but I may work on it here and there. Subscribe if you want, but I make no guarantee it will be finished anytime soon (if at all). In the meantime, I plan to focus on _immediate and inglorious_ and then we'll see what happens. You have been warned.** 🤷🏻♀️
> 
> So, you kind of need to have seen StartUp to understand the backstory, but it's not crucial. Heads up: spoilers for the show in the story and below: 
> 
> IMDB synopsis: 
> 
> "Miami - A desperate banker needs to conceal stolen money. A Haitian-American gang lord wants to go legit. A Cuban-American hacker has an idea that will revolutionize the very future of money itself. Forced to work together, they unwittingly create their version of the American dream - organized crime 2.0."
> 
> Basically, the show is centered around a group trying to make a bitcoin-type business work called GenCoin. Becomes very complicated, and the original 3 creators (ish) end up pushed out of the business, and the original coder (Izzy Morales) reaches out to a crooked FBI agent (Phil Rask, who is played by Martin Freeman, and is John Watson in this crossover/AU) with information that allows Rask to uncover a massive financial scandal around the company, burning it to the ground.
> 
> Phil Rask (John Watson in this story) is a pretty fucked up dude who just wants to make it rich and escape to like Ireland or something. He is also American. He does some bad stuff in the show, including murdering his partner (I'm gonna make her Sarah Sawyer in this, I think), and betrays Izzy to a mafia-type family. He ends up saving her, gets shot, and they become tenuous friends. Izzy leaves America and disappears after she helps Rask expose the scandals around GenCoin (money laundering/theft, etc.). In the show, Phil has an ex-wife and a daughter in her 20s (they'll be Mary and Rosie in this fic).
> 
> Anyways, basically John is Rask, and now he and Sherlock are forced to work on a huge international case together. 
> 
> **Note:** Added the rape/non-con/underage warnings because this fic will deal with mention/possible description of a human trafficking/prostitution crime syndicate. I don't plan to be too explicit with that aspect of the story, but it may arise, so I want readers to be aware. 
> 
> As always, if you think more tags need to be added, let me know.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updated and edited, reposted chapter. Picking this story up again and changed the publish date.

After the massive syndicate takedown four months prior, John felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. His life became a seemingly endless blur of interviews, meetings, debriefings, court cases and media gauntlets. By the time everything slowed, and the aftermath of his, _“I don’t care_ ” comment on nationwide television died down, he was left feeling distorted and removed from himself. 

Empty again.

The only small mercy was no longer suffering the obsessive need to scrub the floor of his bathroom on his knees, t-shirt plastered to his bent back by sweat. No, that, at least, was something he could leave behind with the aftermath of his ‘exemplary’ actions.

It was bullshit—all of it. John was no hero. All he’d wanted was the money, the means to escape the hell hole of Miami. He appreciated Izzy Morales’ actions in affording him the credit of the Gencoin-Guizer takedown, but, beyond that, he could take it or leave it. 

Sitting in his kitchen, a largely untouched glass of red wine in hand, John looked across the room with vacant eyes. His idle thoughts, wandering aimlessly through his head, turned to Izzy again, and he wondered where she was. If she had managed to get away from Miami before the scandal surrounding GenCoin and Guizer erupted into the firebomb she’d anticipated.

John pressed his hand to the thick, aching knot of scar tissue on his side. That day in the Everglades, he had decided for the first time in his pathetic life to put someone else before his own precious skin. But saving Izzy's life had done nothing to change the man he was. Redemption arcs were for fiction novels and tv shows, not real life. 

Sometimes, in the dead of night, he could still feel the rip of the bullet through skin and organs, a vicious tearing followed by sepsis and months of pain. The drive to the hospital, shaking with the need to pass out, the weakness of blood loss, had put a fear deep in his heart. Still haunted his broken sleep. Holding his daughter’s hand in the hospital, Rosie’s slender fingers slotted between his blunt ones, John had felt weak as a kitten.

He never wanted to feel like that again.

His phone rang, the sound startlingly loud in the large, silent house. Shaking the cobwebs from his head, John grabbed the device off the counter, recognizing the Bureau’s number on the screen. Setting down the nursed wine glass to answer the call, he pressed the cell to his ear. “Watson.”

The voice on the other end was friendly and edged with exhaustion. “It’s Stamford. Sorry to call you so late.” 

“It’s fine, Deputy Director,” John said, glancing at the time. Half-past 11 pm. Pushing off the stool, he stood without thinking. His leg, still weak from the bullet that had nearly killed him, threatened to buckle. Grabbing at the counter, John leaned heavily against it, the edge of the kitchen island digging into his back. “What do you need?”

“Alright, Watson.” He could almost hear Mike’s nod through the phone. “I’m calling about a potential case, a financial crime ring based in London that seems to be moving into the US. Sounds like they might be cooking something up here in Miami.” A pause. “After the GenCoin-Guizer operation, your name came up.”

John pressed his free hand against the countertop, fingers curling over the cold marble. “Right,” he replied, looking down at his shaking leg. “Not sure I’ll be much use in the field just yet.” His voice was low and even, but his brows drew down in a dark frown. 

Mike was speaking again, his dismissive tone breaking through John’s haze of self-loathing. “No worries about that, Watson. The UK National Crime Agency is sending us one of theirs. Some kind of specialist agent, with enough field experience and energy to exhaust us both, I’m sure. Weird name. Sherlock Holmes, I think it was. Very keen, or so I’m told.” 

John’s mouth quirked in a humourless smile that bordered on a grimace. In his experience, _keen_ was just a polite word for _young_ , and he didn’t rejoice at the idea of partnering with some over-eager child agent from the UK. He had little doubt that Sherlock Holmes would be anything more than a stuck-up, rookie moron who thought he could become a hot-shot one day if he sniffed the right assholes and greased the right wheels. 

Beneath his derision, more profound and much more personal, John didn’t relish the thought of having a new partner after what had happened to the last one. An image flashed through his head, of blood streaking the edges of a bathtub. His own screams as he rocked against the cold porcelain, wracked with rage and confusion. 

Rolling his shoulders, shoving the memory aside, John sighed, “Alright.”

“Thanks, Watson,” Mike replied. The rustle of papers and the click of keyboard keys slipped through the microphone. “Holmes should be here tomorrow morning, around 10. See you then.”

“Yep. See you.” John let the phone slip from his hand, dropping against the counter with a loud clatter. Lifting the wine glass, he brought it to his lips but didn’t drink. Instead, he stared at the kitchen backsplash, the edge of the goblet cool against his skin.

Despite his limitations, it looked like he would have to re-enter the game.

xxx

With a mild limp in his step, John mounted the stairs of the FBI building. Dropping his gun into a grey bin, he passed under the metal detectors, scooping it up when he stepped out the other side. Resettling the weapon in its holster, John adjusted the badge hooked to his belt and looked at the stairs. After a brief hesitation, eyes fixed into a hard, angry glare, he made his way toward the elevators. 

Bland Muzak punctuated the ascent while the floors ticked past. When the door slid open on the 5th floor, he exited into a window-lined hallway. As John passed through squares of natural light spilling through the polished glass, the sun edged his silvered hair with brief flashes of gold. He rubbed his face, nails scraping against faint stubble, and wished he had remembered to shave. 

Turning a corner, John paused, taking in the presence of a man hovering outside Stamford’s office. Standing in profile, he was looking out a window at the cityscape below, expression flat and composed. John narrowed his eyes, taking a moment to look over the NCA agent.

At least six feet, he was taller than John had expected. No evidence of a concealed carry, no obvious gun at his hip. His dark hair was thick, a curled cascade of carefully orchestrated chaos. He was well dressed, sporting a crisp black suit jacket and matching pants, the collar of a white dress shirt peeking out above two open top buttons. Polished shoes and a rim-rod straight posture completed the ensemble. 

Looking at his overbearingly rigid poise, John hated him already.

John cleared his throat, striding forward, brushing lint off the shoulder of his blue blazer and trying not to limp too noticeably. He schooled his expression into one of detached, cordial interest and held out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes, I presume?” John carefully did not address him as an agent, a subtle dig that did little to quell his own frustration at the adjusted gait of his approach. 

Sunlight painted the man’s face in harsh relief as he turned, emphasizing his high cheekbones, the sharp angles of his jaw and brow. His pale eyes, shifting from blue to green to a hard grey, zeroed in on John. They narrowed, moving over his body, foot to forehead and back. When he reached out to accept John’s offered handshake, his firm, long-fingered grip engulfed John’s compact hand. They shook briskly, pumping once, twice in a solid clasp.

“Indeed. And you must be Agent Watson.” Sherlock’s voice was a low, rumbling baritone, polished English accent rounding out the vowel sounds in his words. His lips, oddly full for a man and very pale in his white face, curved in a slight smile that did not reach the piercing eyes. “Pleasure.” Failing to imbue his words with anything that sounded even remotely close to pleased, he released John’s hand, arm falling back to his side. 

“Likewise,” John said flatly, mirroring the same carefully empty tone Sherlock affected. Sherlock’s hard stare flashed over him again, and John frowned, turning away to look out the windows. “Have you been to Miami before?” He rubbed absently at his side as he spoke, the thick scar itching beneath his button-up.

“No, this is my first time,” Sherlock replied. Just like his formal words, his posture was stiff. “It’s… not quite what I expected.”

John snorted. “Sorry to hear it’s not as nice as jolly old London.” The reply dripped with mockery, his lips twisting in a faint sneer. 

Hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock was silent, refusing to take the bait. He offered a blank, empty smile, his mouth a thin, hard line. The quiet stretched out, and John shifted, rubbing at the nape of his neck. 

Where the fuck was Stamford?

Beside him, Sherlock rocked back on his heels. Tilting his head, he looked John over again, x-ray eyes sharp. 

“How long ago were you shot?” The words were sudden after the quiet, and John’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowing.

“Excuse me?” He failed to soften the hostility that edged his words and pasted a sharp smile on his face, all teeth and no amusement. 

Sighing, Sherlock turned back to the window. “The injury was recent and rather severe. Resulted in an infection, I think.” He reached out, drumming the tips of his fingers against the glass. “You walk with a slight limp, but you’re too proud to use a cane, even though you still need it.” His mouth pursed, expression thoughtful. “There’s an obvious pull on the muscles of your right side, so I assume internal organs were compromised. Most likely, your intestinal tract, in some capacity.” His eyes flickered, watching John’s tense face from the corners. “Sepsis?”

Bad leg shaking, John scowled and pressed the palm of his hand hard against his thigh. “Yes.” Head jerking up, he looked at Sherlock with his jaw clenched. “Did you look me up or something? It’s hardly a secret, my being shot.” 

A mild smirk drifted across Sherlock’s lips, and he snorted, rolling his eyes. The action made John’s lip curl. “Certainly not, Agent Watson.” Sherlock stretched out his fingers, looking at his hand and well-kept nails as if the conversation held no interest for him. “I merely observed.” 

A rude retort burning at the tip of his tongue, John opened his mouth to respond when the door to Mike Stamford’s office swung open.

“Agent Watson, Mister Holmes.” Stepping out into the hall, Mike offered a hand to Sherlock. It was shaken with the same perfunctory politeness the NCA agent had extended to John. “Please, come in.”

They followed Mike into his office, and John dropped into a chair in front of the heavy oak desk, watching Sherlock wander toward the window. His pale eyes moved over the room, taking in the cluttered bookshelves, corkboard covered with pinned papers, the stacks of boxes and file folders piled in the corner. Standing in front of the glass, he stared out at the streets below.

Rolling his eyes, his mouth quirked down at the corners, John straightened his back, rolling stiff shoulders. The movement pulled at the knotted scar tissue on his abdomen, and he grimaced at the twinge of nerve pain. Mike, settling behind his desk, raised his brows in silent query. John shook his head, scowling when Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face. Catching the look, Mike cleared his throat and waved a hand at the empty chair next to John. 

“Mr. Holmes, won’t you sit?” 

“Mm, no thank you,” Sherlock replied, turning to press his back against the window. “I prefer to stand.” To his credit, Mike only looked momentarily put off before he nodded. 

“Whatever floats your boat,” he said, and John huffed out a loud sigh.

He had only just met Sherlock Holmes, and already the Brit was getting on his very frayed and very last nerve. 

“Right. You’re both busy men, let’s get to it.” Mike pulled a file from a drawer, dropping it onto the desk with a _thump._ Smoothing his hands over the beige cover, he looked them over with a hard eye. “The CIA was tracking a string of money laundering and fraud reports in London over the past several months. When transactions suddenly increased between the sector they were monitoring in London and Miami, they became suspicious.” He flipped through the file, papers rustling quietly beneath his fingers. “After some digging, they theorized there must be a liaison or a connected ring here, in the city.” Looking up again, he met John’s eyes across the desk. “Much of the fraudulent activity is tied to bank transfers, probably real estate money laundering, but the CIA thinks there might be something deeper. Possibly human trafficking.”

Hands clenched together in his lap, John’s eyes narrowed. “Forced prostitution?” he asked, an edge slipping into his voice. Mike nodded.

“It seems likely.” He gestured to Sherlock. Still reclined against the window, long arms folded over his narrow chest, the NCA agent tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Mr. Holmes is here in part because of the connection with London, and because he has worked with the Missing Persons Bureau’s Human Trafficking Centre in the UK.” 

John looked up sharply at that to find Sherlock’s eyes on him, gaze cold, calculating and considering. 

Pushing away from the glass, Sherlock propped a hip against the edge of Mike’s desk. “My division has been tracking a human trafficking and prostitution ring through Ireland and Scotland that originated in England for the better part of the last seven months. We thought we were closing in when our intel suddenly dried up.” His fingers tensed, curling into hard fists. “Seems our informant either disappeared or was murdered. My money is on the latter.” Sighing, he tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Our investigation realized the leads that had dried up appeared to move here. Into the United States, and Miami in particular.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and sharpened, dropping to John’s face. “If these are the same circles I was following in the UK, it is impertinent that we disrupt the chain of command as quickly and efficiently as possible.” 

Behind him, Mike nodded his agreement. “Exactly.” Settling back in his chair, he tilted his chin toward John. “Watson, you were singled out for this collaboration because of your work on the GenCoin-Guizer scandal. Given the trafficking and financial connections, the Bureau hopes this will be a strong joint operation.” He paused, eyes flickering over John’s stiff posture, adding, “If you’re up for it.”

The _‘if you’re able’_ was unspoken, but John heard it clearly beneath Mike’s innocuous question. His eyes flashed to Sherlock, who was watching him with a carefully blank expression, arms folded across his chest. He raised an eyebrow when their eyes met. Biting the inside of his cheek, John looked back to Mike.

“Count me in.” 

xxx

A sharp, palpable silence hung heavy in the air between John and Sherlock as they rode the elevator back down to the first floor, amplified by the tinny Muzak drifting from speakers set in the control panel.

Clearing his throat, John locked his eyes on the digitized display of the floors as they ticked past. “So,” he began, hands twitching at his sides, “how long have you been with the NCA?” Beside him, Sherlock shifted, staring forward as he answered. 

“Twelve years.” His reply was polite, voice flat, clearly uninterested in the conversation. John’s eyebrows rose.

“ _Twelve years?”_ he repeated, startled. “Christ, how old were you when you started?” 

“Twenty.” Turning his head, Sherlock offered a slight smile.

John squinted, re-evaluating his initial impression of the other man. The fact that this prim-and-proper pain in the ass was barely out of his twenties, and highly promoted within his department, irked John deeply. After two decades spent with the FBI, he still felt stuck in a dead-end job, ticking away the years until retirement. At 45, he had many more to go.

Unless, of course, a bullet put him down first.

Feeling an ache in his leg, John massaged his palm against his thigh as the elevator doors slid open. 

“Started pretty young, then,” he commented, falling into step with Sherlock. The taller man must have shortened his stride to match John’s limping gait. If so, he showed no sign of it, his steps smooth and measured. Sherlock laughed, a short, humourless bark of laughter.

“I suppose,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by the questioning. “As I said, I am very observant. It is… helpful, in this line of work.” 

“Mm,” John hummed, falling silent. They passed through the lobby, out into warm, humid air. Digging a set of keys out of his pocket, he turned to Sherlock. “Well. We’ll be in touch, I’m sure.” 

Sherlock glanced at him. “Certainly, Agent Watson.” The reply was cold, civil, offering little in the way of warmth or regard. The corner of John’s mouth twitched. With a sharp nod, Sherlock turned and walked toward a black Toyota Camry. Eyes narrowed, John shook his head and made his way across the road when there was a gap in traffic.

Slipping into his Acura, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He caught sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His skin looked waxen despite the flush of irritation in his cheeks, eyes shadowed and dark. Despite months of recovery, his time in the hospital, hovering between life and death, was apparent. He looked tired, washed out, worn down. 

Frowning, he scrubbed at the shadows under his eyes, snorted, and turned his attention to the road. He waited for a car to pass and dragged a hand through his silvered hair before pulling out into the traffic. 

  
  
  



End file.
